


The Riverbank Mindflayer

by Lagerstatte



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen, Stomach Bulge, Tentacle Rape, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-08 22:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12874464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/pseuds/Lagerstatte
Summary: For a split second Ignis turned and stared: the tentacles that flowed like a robe, the red collar, the small eyes. The mindflayer lurched towards him in the same moment he turned to the river, the only option left for escape.He did not escape.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wonderful prompt over on the kinkmeme: https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4398.html?thread=7525166#cmt7525166
> 
> Any concrit would be more than welcome. Thank you for reading!

His first problem was that he was alone.

There'd been a fight with coeurls. All it had taken was a single miscalculation, leading to one misstep then another then another – he'd landed badly from a flip and been forced towards the river. The ground, so close to the water, had been soft mud; he'd not been able to move quick enough; a coeurl had unexpectedly changed targets from Gladio to him – all little things that had cumulated in him being knocked into the river and swept downstream.

He'd hit his head on a rock – not knocked unconscious, but disorientated. The current had been a lot faster and stronger than it had looked from land.

By the time he'd crawled out of the water he couldn't see the others. He didn't recognise any of the landmarks around him. He was soaking wet, aching, and nursing a light concussion. His throat and lungs felt raw from when he'd inhaled water and coughed it out again.

His second problem was that it was getting dark.

This was extremely embarrassing.

He cast regroup, healing away the pounding headache and dizziness, though he was apparently too far away to gain anything from the spell trying to pull the four of them together. Removing his gloves and jacket, which were sticking to him uncomfortably, he picked his phone from the armiger and sent the others a text to say he was unhurt, he hoped they were likewise well, and if they were heading back to the Regalia to please leave an obvious marker on the riverbank so that he didn't accidentally go too far as he returned.

Noct replied straight away that they'd wait for him in the same spot they'd fought the coeurls. He added that the three of them were fine and to hurry up.

Prompto sent a smiley face and a _see you soon_.

Lips twitching up, Ignis tucked his phone back away into the armiger and set off walking, trying to ignore how his wet clothes chafed and sucked the warmth from him. He'd need to cross the river again, since he was now on the wrong side, but he ought to wait until he found a reasonably quiet spot for that, preferably where the exit on the other bank was not going to be through knee-deep mud. The sun continued to descend; a group of sahagin forced him to take a long detour. Ten minutes later and the river and surrounding area were still entirely foreign – he must have been washed much further downstream than he'd realised.

He glanced behind him; the sun was alarmingly close to the horizon. He started to run.

The third problem presented itself soon after that.

The third problem was a mindflayer.

A small clay and rock cliff had risen up between the riverbank and surrounding countryside, and he'd chosen not to climb it, since he needed to cross the river soon anyway. The mindflayer had been hiding in a cave in the cliff, only emerging as he was already passing it; perhaps it had been as surprised to see him as he had it.

For a split second he turned and stared: the tentacles that flowed like a robe, the red collar, the small eyes. It lurched towards him in the same moment he turned to the river, the only option left for escape.

Fighting it on his own was too risky. The way back was blocked by it; the way forward too rocky and unsteady for him to try and outrun it. He'd never be able to scale the cliff fast enough.

Knee-deep in water, a tentacle wound around his arm. He cut it off; it carried on clutching at him, then fell into the river. The rocks beneath his feet ground together, shifting and threatening to trip him up; a second tentacle grasped his shoulder, yanking him back violently. It was too fast – he'd never be able to get away like this – he cut that tentacle off too, his dagger grinding through the rubbery flesh.

He was enveloped from behind, wrapped up in the red webbing stretched between the daemon's tentacles. Slime got on his face, making the hilt of his dagger slippery, and the blood that squirted on him when he slashed out with the blade was cold. The mindflayer lifted him, and the loss of solid ground under his feet made his stomach lurch.

Ignis swept his dagger again, but the webbing was restricting his movements. It felt like trying to fight with his arms and legs tied together with elastic. It felt like panic filling up his head and chest and rattling his organs and the chant in his head that said _Noct, Noct, Noct_ would not let him think. He had to get back to Noct, he couldn't die here–

He cast regroup again, then pulled a potion from the armiger and broke it, even though he wasn't hurt. The regroup would catch Noct's attention, and the potion indicate he was in trouble. Not to mention the lance he summoned, which he forced upwards into the hard mass of the mindflayer's body, through the centre of the tentacle web wrapped tight around him. The mindflayer twisted, convulsing, but didn't let go. It occurred to Ignis that it wasn't hurting him, only seeming to try keep him still, but he couldn't quite hold on to that fact long enough to make sense of it. The webbing stuck to his face, over his mouth. He couldn't breathe; the slime was buttery, salty on his tongue, wet and slick on his teeth. The tentacles tightened around him, crushing. Pain flickered across his body. Fear, claustrophobia. Blood splashed and ran down his lance, spilling across his bare hands and down his arms.

Forcing the lance up again, feeling it break through organs and membranes, Ignis let it return to the armiger. The mindflayer's grip on him had loosened enough to take a dagger and arch it over his head, slicing the webbing; he dropped to the ground, rolled onto his back, and threw his dagger up at the daemon's face.

It dissolved into an inky blackness. Gagging in between ragged gasps for breath, Ignis looked up and saw the other two mindflayers.

One grabbed at him. He rolled, and the second seized him, folding him up in its webbing, lifting him to tuck him into its cold membranes. The tentacle webbing wrapped around him like a plastic blanket, a sheet of organic elastic smothering him, tightening its grip around his wrists and legs until he could barely move – a tentacle found his face, slipping down from his forehead until it reached his lips, leaving a trail of slickness behind.

It knocked off his spectacles and covered his mouth and nose, suffocating. Instinct took over; he opened his mouth. The tentacle, only slightly less than the diameter of his wrist, smooth, cold, slipped inside, sideways at first as if by accident, then orienting itself and turning to lie facing his throat, pressing down hard on his tongue. It tasted like silky smooth oil, salty, like smelling sea-water on the breeze. It was rubbery, firm, but betrayed its strength as it curled down to stroke over his tongue, moving forwards every inch he tried to jerk his head back.

Visceral disgust roiling in his stomach, horror-alarm in his head – the liquid pooled below his tongue, slipping down his throat, making his whole mouth slick. Ignis gagged, retched, tried biting down only to find it had no effect, save his teeth slightly compressing the tentacle and squeezing even more fluid out of it.

He didn't understand what the daemon was doing. None of them had hurt him at all, for all that they'd had their chances to. It was that, almost more than anything, that made terror tremble through him.

The tentacle slid further into his mouth, brushing his soft palate, choking him. He bit harder, as if it would make it attack him, hurt him, act like a normal daemon, because at least then he would understand what it was doing and what he needed to do. He struggled but his limbs were uncoordinated and ungainly, and there was something he needed to do to escape but he couldn't remember what. His stomach heaved, though nothing came up, and more of the slick liquid dripped down his throat. He needed to escape. He needed to – dread filled his head, clutching his throat, made him twist and buck in the daemon's grasp, though it achieved nothing but the muscle-burn of exhaustion.

He was panicking, he realised distantly, twisting and kicking, but he couldn't stop. His skin felt too-hot; his clothes were sandpaper. The webbing across his face covered his eyes and all he could see was the mottled redness of it, but it was cold and soothing.

His hands clenched of their own accord – trying to grab at something, but what he didn't know, and all he found was the wet flesh of the mindflayer in his palms. He carried on grasping, as if only he tried long and hard enough he'd remember, or come across it accidentally, and he'd realise what it was when he found it. There was a tentacle winding around his waist, coiling like a snake, slipping over his clothes and pressing the fabric into his skin. The feeling burnt, scraping across him. The tentacle in his mouth crept a little deeper, and with a shock Ignis realised he was mouthing at it, suckling the length as best he could. His tongue stroked the underside, his lips caressed the circumference. The shock jolted up his spine then faded. He was still sucking at the thing, panting around its girth. Liquid was seeping down his throat faster than ever, and he was swallowing it. His jaw ached.

There was something wrong. There was something wrong but he didn't know what, and he didn't know how to fix it. The taste had taken on a sweet edge – not enough to be cloying, but countering and balancing the oiliness, the sea-salt. It soothed his throat, sat in his stomach. The tentacle around his waist was curling down over his hip, across one thigh, to tuck tight between his legs.

Was this the thing that was wrong? Perhaps. Was it? He couldn't tell any more. That in itself was wrong, because he was supposed to know these things, but the weight in his mouth and the pressure between his legs, against his cock, the fabric scratching at him, prickling, throbbing heat like infection–

He needed to get it off him. His clothes were burning him; surely he'd be able to think if only he could get out of this sensation, trailing across the soft skin of his stomach, his inner thighs, brushing his nipples and making him moan around the fat presence in his mouth. Yes, that was it. He needed to do that. He fumbled with his belt, the buttons on his trousers, tugging the braces from his shoulders. His hands shook. His whole body was wrapped up in a cocoon, cool and wet and alive around him, the blood of the thing pulsing through the membranes and tentacles. He could hear its heartbeat – or perhaps that was his own heartbeat echoing in his ears, rabbit-fast.

His trousers and underwear slipped from his hips, replaced by the cool, soothing caress of the the tentacles, the webbing lying across his skin; he moaned from the pleasure of it. His hips trembled; he was half-hard, feverishly hot. Even as he tugged at the buttons on his shirt, fingers graceless but pushed onwards with the need to be free from the painful rubbing of the fabric, something wrapped around his cock. Not tight, not doing much other than being there, but the friction of his own little thrusts back and forth into it was wonderful enough to ache.

The laces on his shoes – he could barely think, but he undid them, letting his shoes be tugged off. He was naked; he arched his back as the soft membrane surrounded him, skin-on-skin, the tentacles moving across his body like lips, caresses. The tentacle returned to between his legs, sliding against his cock, his balls, lighting his skin with gentle electricity and he wanted more of it, all of it, again and again as he rocked his hips, desperate for friction. He moaned and the tentacle in his mouth went deeper until he gagged on it, and swallowed and swallowed because he wanted to feel it filling him up, inching into him, spilling itself into his belly. It began moving back and forth, rubbing itself on his tongue and touching the back of his throat, and the sensation almost distracted him from the way the tentacle between his legs nudged up against his hole and pushed in.

It was thin, to begin with; it filled out with every inward push. It was breathtaking, pleasure like wine filling him to the brim, stretching him out, never stopping, only adding more and delightful more. Ignis rocked back against it, impaling himself as best he could with his limbs held tight in place. The desperation for it seared through his thoughts, leaving nothing else left. He needed it, more than anything – he wanted to be filled up, stuffed full, a vessel for the heady ecstasy pushing further and further inside him. He needed the friction, the glorious burn as it stretched him so wide he felt he might split from the massive girth, the weight deep in his throat and sitting low in his belly. Each moment he felt that he couldn't possibly take more he took more, and more, and more again, and he whined around the tentacle slowly thrusting down his throat, in and out, distending his neck with the size of it.

He couldn't see, but he could feel his stomach bulging, and his cock dripping pre-come, and a tentacle wound around his chest to nudge against his nipples, heat and desire sparking down his too-full body, settling like a wound spring in his guts. The webbing soothed him and the tentacles maddened, wrapped around him and sequestering him close. Movement on his cock, twisting around the base, stroking up to the head, a tentative probe to the slit; he came, sobbing his muffled pleasure, twisting his body though for what reason he couldn't tell.

At some point the tentacle inside him had stopped pressing only in, but was thrusting both in and out, slow. The tug as it pulled out was agonising in loss, hollow emptiness; he could feel himself clutch down to try stop it, bereft of the glorious fullness of it inside him. The euphoric push as those long inches and inches entered him again felt like it would tear him apart, squeeze his internal organs until they failed, filling him so full he was composed more it than himself. With each thrust it pushed in a little further than before, adding a little more weight to the heavy mass filling his insides. It brushed past his prostate, made him whine and moan and twitch his hips as he grew hard again – too soon, too sensitive even with the silky, soothing membrane brushing his cock, laid over where the tentacle was wrapped, now with the end curled up around the head to press gently in, down the slit.

Ignis bucked, his whole body jolting. It was too much, but he wanted it, gods he wanted it all – the wet, cold feeling of it sliding down into his cock, now fully erect and aching with need. The stretch of the push and pull in his anus, the growing bulk coiled up inside him, filling him out, weighing him down. The grind against his prostate. The way his jaw ached to open to it in his mouth, down his throat, spilling that fluid to pool into his stomach. He needed it; he'd be empty without it. He was hot, burning up; he needed it to cool him, wrap him up, fill him to the brim.

He came again, his orgasm clutching through him, pleasure and heat and never-ending friction, arousal so thorough it edged into pain. He mouthed at the tentacle pressed between his lips, gagging around it as his body tried to gasp and sob. His skin felt alight with sensation. He could feel his own sweat prickle under the wetness of the membrane engulfing him, slicking his skin with oily fluid, trailing slowly over him – his bare feet, the backs of his thighs, the nape of his neck, the soft skin of his forearms. Saliva dripped down his chin. The tentacles thrust into him, again and again and again, deeper every time. His belly was full, tight, the sensation inside him cool and wonderful against his own prickling heat. Liquid squeezed out around the tentacle and ran down his legs, cold, wonderful, squelching as the tentacle pumped in and out.

Time as a concept wavered, became slippery. He was so full. He couldn't take any more, but he wanted to, and then he did – another inch working its way into him. Another thrust, another inch. Another. Another. Yes – yes, he'd take it all, everything, he'd do it. He needed it. The vague, trembling notion of not being this full terrified him – he'd be emptied out, void inside. No, he wanted it. Wanted more. Every motion of his body shifted the tentacles inside him, pulling at them, making the solid mass of them twist up his guts. His third orgasm hit him without warning; his cry vibrated in his chest, smothered and blocked from coming out his mouth. He squirmed, unable to do anything else. There was nothing in him but the trembling of his body as it hosted the waves of pleasure and fever-heat, and the tentacles filling him up like a hand into a glove, pumping him with cold liquid, stroking his insides. There was nothing outside the membrane that covered him, caressed him, kept him from falling apart.

The fourth orgasm tore through him until he hurt with bone-deep exhaustion. He fought to impale himself further, deeper. His eyes were wet; tears scalded his cheeks. When his fifth orgasm reached him he could barely even twitch to struggle through it.

He was denied his sixth by something that tore at the membrane, so hot that when it touched him he burnt with real pain. The membrane was peeled from him, and he couldn't even move to pull it back. The air prickled at him, a thousand needles, the breeze like raking claws. Hands grabbed him, too hot, too hard, hurting. His throat bobbed with his low whine of protest, though he could no longer tell what he was protesting, and no sound came out from around the tentacle still deep in his throat.


	2. Chapter 2

Prompto was sitting on a rock next to the riverbank, swinging his legs and kicking his heels, when he felt it. He didn't recognise it: a faint wash of something over him, prickling across his skin, leaving just as quickly as it came. His attention was more caught by Noct, sitting next to him, frowning – then Noct stiffened, eyes widening. He turned to look out across the river, scanning the dark water as if he expected Iggy to pop out at any second.

Noct shot to his feet, fast enough Prompto might have thought he'd warped if not for the lack of after-image. 'Gladio!' Prompto flinched at the loudness of his voice, ringing out across the night landscape. 'Ignis' in trouble.'

Gladio was beside him before Prompto could scramble to his feet. 'That was him just now?' he demanded, and only then did Prompto recognise the wash of something to be magic, and specifically, Ignis' healing. His stomach plummeted, a cold, hard feeling left in its place.

'And he took a potion,' Noct said, already turning to run downstream. 'He's using his weapons, must've ran into daemons–'

Gladio cursed and followed, Prompto scrambling to catch up. 'Okay, listen up,' Gladio said, 'we all stick together, keep quiet until you spot something.'

'Right,' Prompto said, just to say something, realising a second too late that by speaking he'd already broken the keep quiet rule, though no one commented on it. No one even seemed to notice. He was itching for his guns as he turned to stare out over the river, then back to see where he was going, then to the river again. They'd be able to see a fight, right? It wasn't really dark yet, sunset not too long ago, and anyway Ignis would have his flashlight on him. They'd definitely be able to spot him. And it'd been fifteen minutes since he'd fallen in, ten since he'd texted them – how far away could he be?

They continued to run – almost straight into a group of flan. Noct disappeared in a flash of blue; Prompto grabbed his guns and aimed as he jogged backward, muscle memory. Were these what Ignis had been fighting? If he'd cast regroup and also taken a potion, did that mean he'd been seriously hurt?

The fight ended in bare minutes, but looking around the site, there was no trace of Ignis. Noct's face in the lamplight was pale, eyes drawn wide, stricken. Prompto caught his eye but didn't know what to say, useless platitudes dried up in his throat. Noct shook his head. 'He stopped using his weapons,' he said. 'A couple of minutes ago, maybe.'

'Probably finished whatever it was off,' Gladio said, but Prompto had his phone out and there weren't any texts from Ignis, no missed calls or explanations for what had happened, and he knew Ignis would have definitely sent something at least, and he knew Noct and Gladio were looking at him and had reached the same conclusion just from his expression.

He sent a text anyway: _you okay?_ _pls reply_

'He's fine,' Gladio said, but his voice was hoarse, unconvincing. Prompto nodded, still staring at his phone. No reply. They set off again, a little slower, scanning the riverbank. Was that an old tree branch, or something else? That lump was a rock, right? Yes – no – yes, definitely a rock, piled up on one side with dead leaves.

When they finally got there, they almost missed it. Noct was the one who saw it, called out, a wordless noise to bring it to their attention – the lumpen black shape of fabric, discarded clothing, on the other side of the river. Prompto stopped short, shone his light onto it; the beam glanced off Ignis' glasses, lying there caught between two rocks, inches from the water.

Noct warped over, two throws of his sword to cross the river, stumbling as he reached the other side. He knelt by the wet pile of clothes.

'Noct!' Without pausing Gladio ran and jumped into the river, swimming across but pulled downstream; Prompto stared at him for a second, then back to Noct. He couldn't quite manage to persuade his brain that it knew what to do with this information. Ignis had got in a fight. Ignis' discarded clothes were lying on the river bank. It was night. Daemons.

'Noctis,' Gladio spluttered, almost half-way across. 'You stupid fuck, don't–'

The mindflayer chose that moment to appear behind Noct, as if out of nowhere. Noct was looking at Gladio, Ignis' glasses limp in one hand. Prompto took his shotgun and fired it at the mindflayer's face. Did daemons eat people? What did they actually do to their victims?

Not that Ignis was a victim. Not that he'd been eaten, or anything, or was even in any trouble at all because there had to be a reasonable explanation like Ignis using his spare clothes as a distraction or something, anything, because Ignis _had not been eaten–_

The mindflayer recoiled; the shotgun fell nervelessly from Prompto's hands, back into the armiger. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking. He ran forwards, into the river. It was cold enough to drive the air from his lungs, make his fingers become uncooperative, numb.

There were two mindflayers, he realised, by the time he dragged himself out of the river. Two were a decent enough fight for the four of them; for just one? no thanks, his mind supplied, as he clambered to solid ground. He watched Noct flash in and out of existence in bright, beautiful sparks of blue, dispatching one of the daemons into black sludge and smoke before he could even raise his weapon. He aimed it at the second mindflayer, the one still alive. It took a second, but he realised what was odd about it – two things odd about it. It wasn't attacking, but hanging back, near the cliff. And it had something wrapped up in its tentacles, lower half bulging like a sack full of something limp.

He shot the mindflayer in the crown above its face, almost absently, then watched as Gladio threw down his sword and began ripping at the webbing. The mindflayer moved back but still didn't attack, not even to defend itself.

Noct stabbed it from behind, dragging it down, and Gladio yanked Ignis out from its tentacles.

Prompto took a step forward, then stopped. His mind blanked. Ignis was naked. He was alive, struggling weakly. There was a tentacle in Ignis' mouth. A big tentacle. It looked – it was pulsing, stretching Ignis' mouth open wide, and Prompto could see it shift in the way Ignis' throat shifted, at least all the way down to his Adam's apple.

Another tentacle was wrapped around Ignis' waist, curled possessively. Another was at his crotch, wound around his cock – it was going into his cock, pencil-thick, and another one the width of Prompto's forearm was curled in between his legs and going – and going – and oh gods it was the thing making Ignis' stomach bulge out, like he'd swallowed a melon, like he were–

Ignis arched his back, heels scuffing against the muddy, rocky ground. Prompto turned, covered his mouth, and tried to swallow down the vomit that shot up his throat. He gagged, eyes watering.

'Should I kill it? Gladio, what do I do–' Noct, his voice low, trembling in panic.

'Kill it,' Gladio said, 'Quickly, for fuck's sake, kill it now–'

The wet sound of Noct's blade going through hard, rubbery flesh, then a gasp – Ignis. The gasp strangled itself into a cry, incoherent and animalistic, forcing Prompto to turn and look again; the cry cut off as Ignis retched then vomited, clear liquid spilling from his mouth, splashing on the rocks.

'Don't touch him,' Gladio said, voice snapping out. 'He's covered in something; let me wash it off first.'

Whatever Noct thought of that went unsaid – he only stared at Gladio's back as he lifted Ignis, who'd started to twist, then kick, then thrash in his arms, until Gladio resorted to clamping him tight against his own body and all but throwing them both into the river.

'No,' Ignis said, the word barely intelligible. 'No, no, no–'

Prompto wiped his mouth, standing up on shaky legs to go stand next to Noct. The darkness prickled at the back of his neck. Noct didn't even seem to notice him, watching as Ignis fought Gladio's grip, long, pale limbs twisting and kicking, splashing water; he was crying, sobbing aloud, broken sobs, and Prompto looked away. His heart was racing, as if they were still in the middle of a fight. There wasn't any sound other than the water and Ignis, and Gladio's occasional grunt of effort to keep him restrained. No daemons, no beasts, no nothing. The moon was starting to rise.

'Gladio,' Noct said. 'Stop. Stop it. You're freaking him out. He was just – he's not going to want to be held like that!'

'Fuck, fuck – Ignis! You're okay, you're safe–' Gladio dropped one of the hands he was holding Ignis with, then the other, and Ignis fell into the water and sunk. Gladio hauled him up again, pulling him to the bank, clutching him despite his struggles. 'Antidote,' he said, between gritted teeth. 'Smelling salts?'

Noct rushed forward, breaking them one after the other on Ignis' bare chest. They didn't stop Ignis twisting, or the low, long sobs racking through him.

'What else?' Prompto could barely recognise his own voice. His muscles trembled with frightened, anxious energy.

Noct pulled a phoenix down and all but smashed it against Ignis' shoulder. The flames caught, flickered across him, but they didn't do anything either.

'Please,' Ignis begged, 'please, please–' He'd stopped struggling, instead clinging onto Gladio, his legs hooked around his waist and arms around his neck, face buried into Gladio's shoulder. Gladio's arms were around him, but didn't hide how he was rocking, undulating against Gladio, and Prompto turned away, his back to the river, not even sure that this was better than the struggles. He swallowed again, trying to force away the queasiness roiling in his stomach. Ignis wouldn't want anyone to see this. Prompto could give him at least the semblance of privacy until he calmed down, came round.

And if he never calmed down, or came round? Prompto pushed the thought away, hard as he could.

Standing and trying not to tremble, he stared at the dark shapes and lines of the cliff, listening to the sounds of the others behind him but unable to face them, hot with shame. He couldn't bear to even look at Ignis like this, let alone do anything to help, but the feeling of uncomfortableness, anxiety, cripplingly strong, swelled and swelled and he couldn't stand it. Maybe it was the secondhand embarrassment – Ignis, he was pretty sure, would rather eat his own glasses than knowingly appear in front of anyone like this: come completely undone, incoherent, basically humping Gladio as he cried openly. Or perhaps it was the juxtaposition of it being Ignis who was like this, and the fact that Ignis was the exact opposite of like this. Ignis was calm and collected and intelligent and he almost always had a handle on his emotions, and the only emotions he regularly didn't were smugness or light fondness, or perhaps irritation. Not... this.

He didn't want to see this. Ignis wouldn't want him to see this. And it wasn't even like he was doing anything useful, only standing around and not even able to look.

He pulled his gun from the armiger, holding it and only just managing not to have his finger tapping nervously on the trigger. He could watch out for danger and defend the others. That's what he could do. It was pretty dark now, a bit too cloudy to have a good starlit sky, but not too much to obscure the moon and brighter stars. The noise of the river was way too loud. Ignis made a low sound, coughed and gasped. He whined, and Prompto winced, trying and failing utterly to forget it.

In the end Gladio carried Ignis across the river slung over his back, Ignis' trousers tying them together at the waist, in case he tried to wriggle away. Prompto paddled alongside as best he could in the strong current, in case something went wrong, though nothing did, save the couple of times Ignis still somehow managed to slip from Gladio's back and get dunked. Noct watched from the bank, having already warped over, and his impatience was very almost tangible. He shot Gladio a filthy look as they got to the bank, not even waiting for him to get out of the water before wading in and untying Ignis, hauling him out himself with his arms around Ignis' chest. Ignis clutched at him.

Prompto snuck Gladio a look, but Gladio's face was cast in shadow, and he didn't say anything. He just shoved the trousers into the armiger and went to help Noct carry Ignis up onto the softer, grassy verge. They dried him off and dressed him in fresh clothes, rummaging around in Ignis' suitcase for something loose, soft. Ignis fought the clothes every step of the way, but at least his begging had stopped, and his sobs quietened into deep, mournful moans, grief-stricken, exhausted. Noct brushed the hair from his face with a tentative hand, and Prompto watched as Ignis pressed his face into it, nuzzling it, eyes closed.

They walked back to the Regalia in silence, Ignis back on Gladio's back, though they didn't have to tie him there this time. Prompto wiped his eyes on his sleeve, trying to be subtle, but he saw how Noct was crying, angrily scrubbing his tears away more than once. Gladio's face was hidden behind Ignis, head laid on his shoulder, mouthing at his neck. Prompto looked away.

At the Regalia, after a quick and pointed look from Gladio, Prompto took the driver's seat. Noct grappled Ignis off Gladio wordlessly and tucked the two of them into the rear, Noct sitting across the seats with his back to the door, Ignis curling up on his lap. Gladio took shotgun and didn't say anything as the car jolted and jerked and weaved its way to the haven they'd left that morning. No one said anything about how they were getting the seats soaking wet, but then, Prompto thought without really wanting to, that would have been Ignis' job anyway.

Driving at night sucked. Driving this night really, really sucked. His foot was trying to twitch, use this as the worst possible time to develop restless leg syndrome. He was trying harder than he'd ever before to keep his eyes on the road, only to keep catching himself glancing into the rearview mirror – but in the dark, with Noct and Ignis lying down, he couldn't see them in it anyway. How much further? His eyes itched, stining. His foot twitched on the gas. He kept imagining daemons lurking out onto the road, landing on top the car, catching up with them and jumping them from behind. Mindflayers come to reclaim Ignis – claim all of them – Prompto blinked in surprise when Gladio grunted, and motioned to his left – 'here' – and realised they'd arrived at the haven. He could barely remember the journey, except as a single long, tight moment of anxiety. He was breathing hard, he realised, and slammed the break before he could drive past the turning.

Ignis should have commented about that. He didn't. Prompto's hands patted the wheel, tapping out a rapid, unsteady beat.

'Should we get a caravan? Or hotel room?' he said as he pulled in, close as possible. A rock scraped the Regalia's underside, but no one commented on that either. He glanced behind him; Noct's face was buried in Ignis' hair. Ignis was curled around Noct, trembling, his hips rocking in tired, empty motions.

'It'd take all night to get to one,' Gladio said, a low rumble, barely louder than a whisper. Neither Noct nor Ignis reacted to his voice. 'We'll camp here and if he's not showing any signs of improvement in the morning, then we'll go.'

Prompto nodded, and got out to help Gladio set up the tent. He left the cooking station in the armiger, but got the grill and kettle set up over the fire so they could have hot water, taking a moment to strip off his wet top and shoes, propping them close to the flames. Only when the tent was finished and bedding laid out did Noct emerge from the Regalia, tugging a stumbling Ignis with him. Ignis' eyes were closed, and he'd draped himself over Noct in a way that would have been hilarious for any other reason. If Prompto didn't know better, he'd say that Ignis looked like a really, really affectionate drunk. He did know better, though, so he averted his eyes, squinting at the steam rising from his shoes.

He sat down by the fire, nudged his shoes a little further away, and watched the kettle come to a boil. Ignis and Noct disappeared into the tent; Noct did the tent up. Ignis was silent now, or at least so quiet Prompto couldn't hear him, but the way he'd moaned earlier, his whines and sobs and wet panting – Prompto bit his lip and tried not to think about it. Nor about the curve of Ignis' back as he arched his spine, laid out in the tangle of mindflayer's tentacles, bare hands grasping at nothing. Nor the glazed, uncomprehending look in his eyes. The way his mouth had twisted, opened, eyes screwed shut, brow furrowed. He couldn't even tell what expression it'd been. Prompto bit his lip harder, and felt sick.

A while later Noct emerged to grab the hot water and a washcloth before returning, not speaking a word.

Even this close to the fire, with his soaking pants and underwear, and his hair he should probably dry before it turned into an uncontrollable mess, he was getting cold. He started to shiver, and shifted a little closer to the flames, turning sideways on so he could lean back on his palms and stare out into the black night beyond the haven. He could see the gibbous moon, but, with the fire and runes, none of the stars.

'What d'you think's going to happen?' he asked. Gladio didn't reply. Prompto glanced at him. He was sitting on a camp chair, facing out. Watching for danger. Prompto returned to looking at the sky, with one short detour to the tent, though he could hardly see through the zipped shut entrance. Couldn't hear anything, either. That was probably for the best. The side of his pants that faced the fire were getting uncomfortably hot, now, and he shuffled around so to face the other way.

Half an hour later, Gladio said, out of nowhere: 'It's late. Go get some sleep.' Prompto looked at him, then at the tent. He picked himself up and changed into his pyjamas outside, too tired to care for modesty. Crawling into the tent, trying to be careful, he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dark, searching out shapes in the lumpy piles of blankets. Noct and Ignis were curled up together, as close as physically possible, motionless save their slow breathing.

The memory of Ignis' skin, wet, flushed. The way he'd twitched, squirming as he'd been fucked so full he'd bulged with it. How wide he'd been stretched, how deep.

He looked peaceful now, anyway, at least inasmuch as Prompto could see.

Prompto buried himself into the mess of blankets on Ignis' free side, letting himself shuffle up until his shoulder touched Ignis' chest. Ignis didn't move, so Prompto shuffled closer again, then a bit closer again. He closed his eyes just as Ignis sighed, shifted, and lifted a hand to brush down some strands of Prompto's flyaway hair. He laid his hand on Prompto's waist and tucked his head down, breathing softly against Prompto's shoulder.

Maybe it'd be fine, Prompto thought, and surprised himself with it. He opened his eyes and looked at Ignis' sleep-flushed face, his lips parted very slightly, the lack of a frown between his brows.

Maybe it would eventually be okay. Maybe. Eventually. Prompto's eyes drifted shut, his hand reaching over to touch Ignis'. Ignis' skin was warm and dry, his fingers calloused.

Not long after that, Prompto fell asleep.


End file.
